Claires Cunt Kitchen

This "Christmas special" follows on from the conclusion of

Alison Goes to London

-- but it can also stand alone.

~

It is 2051, and under the "Enlightenment", Europe is ruled by Pleasure, and love is eschewed. Claire and Bradley have graduated from the Royal Academy of Fucking and, assisted by their friend, up-and-coming anal slut Riley, have set up a fuck-café in Cuntden Market. However, their best friend Alison has fled the Union and has married Rob, who is black, an "Undesirable" under Enlightenment law. Alison's parents, pillars of the fucking establishment (her father being the CEO of the biggest butt-plug company in Europe) are, naturally, scandalised. At least, London's Princess Asshole Hospice is now free of its sadistic former director Dr Hildegard Fotzenficker and her sidekick Nurse Datchet. It was Hildegard who brutally killed Rob's father; despite this, Rob tried -- and failed -- to save Hildegard's life before she fell to her death at 38B Tottenham Cunt Road last year.

~

The smell of hot coffee, roasted chestnuts and stale semen wafts through the winter air as she picks her way up Cuntden Lock Place. She stops frequently to check behind her, as if afraid she might be sighted; with each pause, her long faux-mink coat swirls in the morning fog, and a new brief moment of misty early-morning silence punctuates the rhythm of her cobble-clicking heels. If one were to get close enough, one might see in her face an intermittent, unspoken, almost unnatural anxiety -- unnatural because, in this year of AD 2051, anxiety is very rare, for all the troubles of the world have been cast aside by the Great Enlightenment: now the civilised world is ruled by Pleasure. Only in the Outside World is there anxiety, or ugliness, or poverty, or oppression -- or that most outdated of sentiments, 'love'.

All these thoughts pass through her mind in an instant and, thus reassured, she pulls herself together, confecting a triumphant smile and briskly continuing her journey. As she dodges through alleyways and courtyards, she passes shut-up shops, folded-up street stalls, and cafés just beginning to grind into action, their "closed" signs still firmly in place despite the noises and smells emerging from within. The street cleaners are only just beginning their work, and the detritus of the previous night's street revelries lies untidied along the pavements and pathways: discarded anal beads, cock-rings, lube bottles. In the distance, a woman in a red dress disappears round a corner, her long auburn hair swishing in the mist. Fog-damp seasonal decorations adorn the walkways: tinsel and bunting peppered with little origami penises; baubles shaped like breasts, their nipples gleaming in the weak sunlight; and posters of snowman orgies, angel blowjobs, and Santa and his crew of futa elves enjoying an anal daisy-chain. As she passes a small fast-food joint, she hears the disjointed strains of

I Saw Momma Fucking Santa Claus

blaring from a crackly kitchen radio.

Eventually, she reaches the urban Canal, in time to see a boat swish slowly by, three youngsters enjoying a quiet spit-roast on the blanket-covered upper deck, the girl's hair tied back with a bright yellow ribbon as she sucks the cock of one of her companions, whilst the other slides into her cunt from behind.

What wonderful times we live in

, the woman thinks to herself.

It was not like this for our forefathers, imprisoned and hidebound by the prudishness and ignorance of the Old Times. Long live the Enlightenment!

At last, she finds her destination, checking it against her map -- a small café facing the Canal, emblazoned with the sign:

CLAIRE'S CUNT KITCHEN:

purveyors of fine food, fucking and food-fucking

-- the glass of the door adorned with a large, lovingly-drawn picture of said cunt, open, glistening and pink, enticing the customers in.

Beautiful

, she thinks, admiring the artwork -- before she remembers why she is here, and that shadow of anxiety reclaims her face, making her, unusually, look her age.

The sign on the door, tastefully hung from Claire's painted swollen clitoris, says "closed" (in ironic contrast to the cunt itself); but through the pink glass, she sees a light on behind the counter and some steam emerging from the kitchen behind. She knocks three times, peering (approximately urethra height) through the steamy glass to discern signs of movement within. A second set of knocks --

shave and an assfuck

this time -- succeeds in attracting a teenage face, bleached blond hair tied back into a ponytail, looking quizzically through a crack in the doorway. "M' pussy," says the girl. "Sorry, we're not yet open. Can ya come back at nine?"

The would-be customer is not deterred. "Lick my pussy," she says in a business-like manner. "I'm looking for Claire."

"She's not normally in till nine. I open up on Saturdays." The girl has a charmingly plebeian voice: "But if you wanna wait inside till she arrives, I'm sure that'll be all righ'..."

The café is filled with comforting smells which waft out from the kitchen: freshly baked bread, coffee, grilled bacon and warm cunt. The pink walls are covered with posters of great film classics of the last century (

Deepthroat

,

New Wave Hookers

,

Debbie Does Dallas

), as well as more recent hits with a culinary bent (

Banana Bitches III

,

Whiteshit Wenches IV

,

Whipped Cream Pies II

) -- reflecting, presumably, the cinematic preferences of the café owners. Bunches of mistletoe hang above the formica-topped tables. "Ooh," says the woman, admiring the decor as she takes a seat on a high stool at the counter, "this is nice!"

"Claire and Brad have done it up all posh-like, I fink," says the girl. "'Ave a look at the menu! Can I get ya somefink? I've just put some eggs on to boil." She is naked except for a skimpy apron which barely covers her nipples, and which displays the same vaginal image as the front door; her tight backside is fully exposed, except for the tied apron sash which dangles between the crack of her buttocks.

The woman studies the menu with interest and amusement, before saying, "Your boiled egg 'special' looks amazing -- can you do one for me?"

"Sure fing! Two eggs, yeah?" grins the girl. "And d'ya want somefink ta drink -- 'special' too?"

"Hot chocolate, please!" smiles the woman, before taking off her coat, to reveal her outfit: a long black silk dress, slit up to her bare crotch, off the shoulder on one side, leaving one firm breast encased by a strapless lace cup.

"Oh fuck, that's so classy, that dress!" exclaims the girl, as the customer takes a seat at a table. "I bet you get a lot of guys wanting to fuck ya with that fing on! Sorry, the other staff aren't in yet, otherwise I'd offer to eat yer cunt. But feel free to rub yerself off if ya want while I'm doin' yer eggs," she adds, as she grins and disappears into the kitchen.

The customer does not, in fact, immediately start to "rub herself off", but casually explores the premises, admiring the posters, and taking a closer look at a collection of photographs stuck on a large pinboard above the counter. Pride of place goes to a tall, willowy girl with green eyes, long blond hair, pert tits and shaven pussy, in various stages of undress and a variety of sexual positions: sticking two fingers up her own cunt through a conveniently-located tear in her blue jeans; deepthroating a stiff (though not very large) cock, extended tongue curled affectionately around the testicles; sticking an ice lolly up her asshole while three men jerk cum over her face; and licking someone else's vulva -- young, juicy, with a carefully-trimmed triangular light-brown landing-strip which looks just like...

"Oh!" exclaims the woman, clasping her hand over her mouth. Suddenly, there are tears in her eyes, which she hastily wipes away with one hand. She turns away, trembling, and goes back to her seat.

The waitress has clearly turned on the radio, for the cheery tones of

Fucking Around the Christmas Tree

begin to tinkle through the café sound system. Soon she returns with a large steaming mug of hot chocolate, asking, "Some cream on that?"

"Oh, yes please!" replies the customer.

The girl giggles and places the chocolate on the table before climbing onto the chair opposite and turning around so that her bottom is poised gracefully above the mug. The customer gasps, admiring the beauty of the girl's posterior. Her buttocks are tight, but her asshole gently pulsates and winks, as if softly massaging its contents, before the girl elegantly twists her hips to slowly fart a perfectly-formed swirl of whipped cream onto the surface of the customer's beverage.

"Oh fuuuck, that's beautiful!" exclaims the older lady, feeling a shiver pass from her clit through her body. "Where did you learn that?"

"Oh, the bosses are great," grins the girl, as she wipes the remaining cream off her asshole and slurps it off her finger. "Give us lots of training. I only work weekends, though -- so I'm not as good as Claire yet: she's the real food-fuck expert! But I'm at the RAF now -- you know, Royal Academy of Fuckin' -- and there's a couple of lecturers there who're really good at this sort of fing! But -- oops," she flaps, "I'd better get yer eggs!"

The girl disappears into the kitchen again with her tray, leaving the customer savouring the taste of coffee with asshole-flavoured cream. The radio is now blaring:

Fucking around the Christmas tree --

Have a happy holiday!

Everyone's fucking merrily

In the new old-fashioned way...

The waitress returns a couple of minutes later with another tray bearing two empty egg cups which she places on the table before, again, turning around and squatting on the opposite seat, cunt-lips dangling damp and glistening, bottom poised. She giggles as her tight asshole gradually begins to wink, bit by bit opening up to reveal her smooth maroon rectal tunnel, gaping and deep. The customer gasps again, "Oh, that's so lovely, my dear! I do adore asshole -- and what a beauty you have!"

"Y' ain't seen nuffink yet!" smirks the waitress, as her rectal muscles continue to work, gradually easing something large, white and flexible outwards towards her anus. As the peeled hard-boiled egg crowns (still steaming slightly), the customer gives a delighted cry and leans forward to flick her tongue around the bulging anal rim. The owner of the asshole gives a happy squeal. "Oh fuck yeah -- d'ya like licking arsehole, ma'am? I love it when the customers show their appreciation!" She tightens her sphincter again, sucking the egg back into her anal depths, before again gently bearing down so that the egg crowns a bit more this time, almost plopping out -- but not quite, before disappearing again into the girl's rectum.

Twice more, the waitress performs her egg trick, before eventually allowing it to bulge past her rim, plopping, small end up, into one of the egg cups, emitting a damp squelch as it does so, before being garnished with a delicate dribble of translucent anal lube. "Brava, my dear!" says the woman, before giving the girl's quivering ass-rim another congratulatory slurp. "Now, do you need to go back to the kitchen for the second egg?"

"What d'ya take me for, an amateur?" giggles the girl in mock umbrage, as she begins to repeat the exercise, one middle finger massaging between her moist pussy-lips as she slowly brings another gently steaming hard-boiled egg to the surface, which bulges obscenely against her perfectly circular, wide-stretched sphincter.

The customer watches with growing fascination and desire as the asshole continues to wink, bulge and stretch temptingly before her eyes. Her mouth slightly open, her lower lip begins to tremble with lust. "Oh God, oh fuck," she moans, reaching under her skirt with her left hand to find her clit. She is shaking all over now, and -- quite to her waitress' surprise -- her eyes are beginning to leak tears.

"Are y' all righ', ma'am?" asks the girl.

"Oh yes, oh yes!" pants the customer, an expression on her face which combines luminous zeal with tragic nostalgia. She begins to rub her clit with her left thumb while the other hand deftly releases her own right breast from its strapless cup and begins to massage it. "Your asshole is so beautiful!" she moans, as she steps up her pace, sliding two fingers of her left hand into her already-juicing pussy whilst her other hand squeezes her tit with increasing desperation.

"And... and... it reminds me of someone," moans the woman. "She had a beautiful GM asshole too, just like yours: clean and lubed, total gape and wink control. So fucking filthy she was too, such a beautiful, perfect, well brought-up, lovely assfucking slut -- until... oh God...!" the customer squeals, revelling in the sheer beauty of the waitress's pulsating, winking, teasing, egg-filled shitter, before clamping her mouth onto it to slobber over the pungent culinary marvel, "... until... until," she pants, "she left us for the Outside World -- OH MY GOD!!!" the woman screams, a strange wail of combined ecstasy and agony, her tongue lapping maniacally at the gorgeous egg-bulging asshole, the fingers of her left hand rubbing her clit to a frantic climax, her right hand beating and slapping at her exposed tit as she comes, tears coursing unstaunched down her face.

"OH FUUUCK!!!" wails the woman. "ALISON, WHY DID YOU BETRAY MEEE?"

"ALISON?!" gasps the waitress. In shock, she momentarily loses control of her anal muscles, and the hard-boiled egg shoots out of her rectum, landing with a splash in the customer's mug, sending its contents flying. Warm chocolate splashes across the woman's exposed tit and down her dress, and whipped cream spatters her face and tongue. "Alison?" repeats the girl, as she turns her head. "Alison

Bates

?! Are you...?"

"She pleasured me so much," sobs the woman, as tears continue to course down her face, mixing with the whipped cream to make creamy rivulets which drip onto her dress and exposed boob. "She gave me so much joy. I miss her more than I can say. My beautiful, sexy, fuckslut cuntwhore DAUGHTER!" She bursts into renewed floods of tears, her wails filling the small café, drowning out the strains of the radio.

"OH!" gasps the girl. "You're... Oh, I had no idea! Oh, ma'am, I'm so sorry!" the girl shudders, desperately pulling off her apron and using it to try to wipe up the mess she has made of her customer. "You make all those amazing buttplugs, don't you? And Alison was my total fuckin' idol," she blathers, unsure whether to prioritise comforting the distraught parent or apologising for the mess. "She 'elped me get into the RAF, ya know? She was such a great arsefucker. I miss 'er so much, she..."

But the girl's frantic monologue is suddenly cut short by a voice shouting: "RILEY! WHAT THE FUCK?" -- as the front door opens, and in walks none other than the tall sexy blonde from the photos on the pinboard, dressed in a crotchless red bodysuit and transparent latex coat, followed closely by a skinny young man wearing jeans, a black leather jacket, and glasses.

"Oh, Claire, Claire -- fuck, I'm so sorry!" Riley flusters. "I can explain everyfink. This is.., this is..."

"Lick my pussy, Claire," says the customer, as formally as is possible for someone in such a state of sartorial disarray. "How are you?"

"Mrs Bates!" exclaims the blonde. "Oh my fucking God!"

There is shocked silence all round, punctuated only by the radio, which is now playing:

It's beginning to fuck a lot like Christmas:

Toys for every whore!

But the prettiest sight to see is the pussy that will be

On your own front door...

~

This is such a beautiful cock!

thinks Alison to herself, as she kneels on the floor of her bedroom. Outside, it is raining: hot tropical rain which drums insistently on the attap roof, offset by the noisy splashing of great monsoon puddles on the patio outside. The windows are open and the soft swirling breeze caresses her curvaceous body, giving some blessed relief from the habitual heat and sweat.

Alison's tongue traces up and down the cock. By now, she knows every feature of this superb black shaft: the large vein which runs along the underside on the left, always throbbing, pulsating; the little mole halfway up on the right, which she always likes to tickle with the tip of her tongue; the perfectly-proportioned foreskin which slides back effortlessly whenever the cock goes hard, revealing that gorgeous throbbing deep purple-brown head -- now gleaming with the first drop of elegantly poised pre-cum.

He moans as she licks off the glistening droplet, cock twitching with anticipation. "Good?" she asks.

"Oh, baby, so good!" he grins, his eyes twinkling with delight as he gazes down at her face, now slightly fuller than a few months ago, but still so prettily framed by soft light brown hair. Grinning back, she opens her mouth wide and, eyes still gazing into his, slides her lips all the way down the huge black shaft till they caress and nibble his balls.

"Oh fuuuck!" he exclaims, revelling in the ecstasy of feeling his member completely swallowed, the glans caressed and squeezed by the back of her throat.

"Mm-mm!" she chides him mischievously, waggling a finger in mock rebuke, before releasing his cock, allowing a small flood of throat-slime to dribble down her chin and onto her full, dark-nippled breasts. "He can hear every word!"

"Oops, sorry," he laughs. "Just like Claire, hey? 'Don't say fuck -- oh yeah, oh fuck I said fuck -- oops!'"

"Rob, you shithead!" she laughs, playfully slapping his cock so it swings wildly from side to side, before eventually regaining equilibrium just in front of her lips.

"Hey, how come you can call me a 'shithead', but I can't say 'fuck'?"

"'Coz you are a shithead!" she giggles affectionately. "A filthy-minded Undesirable shithead perv who leads nice white Enlightened anal sluts like me astray!" She plunges her throat back down onto his cock, emitting a long gurgling noise as she feels it touch bottom, her tongue curling around his heavy black balls.

Rob laughs, his cock jiggling in Alison's throat. "Well, if I'm a shithead perv, then you're a dirty filthy motherfucking whore, remember?"

"

Aa'-hucking

ho'!" corrects Alison, through a throatful of cock. "Dir'y fil'hy mowwerhu'ing

aa'-hucking

ho'!"

"Gonna prove it now?" asks the black man.

"Hey," Alison remonstrates, removing Rob's cock from her mouth again, allowing more slime to dribble down onto her tits, "are you complaining about the throat-treatment you're getting? I've been practising hard!" To prove the point, she plunges her face back onto Rob's cock again, giving him a brief but frantic gurgling up-and-down throatfuck, letting spit fly in all directions and splatter her face and tits.

Rob laughs. "Well, it's paid off!" he enthuses. "A year ago, I didn't know you could do that!"

"I couldn't a year ago," admits Alison, pausing her deepthroating. "But your sister bought me a damn good set of training dildos! So who needs the fucking Royal Academy of Fucking anyway? Hey, you gonna eat my ass now?"

"I thought we weren't saying 'fuck'?" replies Rob in puzzlement. "'He can hear every word' -- didn't you say something like that?"

"Well, maybe... But how about we make an exception when we're actually fucking...?" suggests Alison tentatively. "I mean, how can you fuck without saying 'fuck'?